


come undone with me (twisting and turning)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4485828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accident in the lab leaves Jemma in dire straits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come undone with me (twisting and turning)

**Author's Note:**

> Sex pollen is contagious in all senses of the word, or so it appears. I blame this on JD's beautiful [such a fool (to pay this price)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4458815), plus the fact that my iTunes shuffle tossed up Digital Daggers' _State of Seduction_ before church this morning. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

It hurts.

Oh God, it hurts.

Jemma knew it would—or she _thought_ she knew. Nothing could have prepared her for this. It’s like being turned inside out, torn apart; what was once a painful tug has become _agonizing_ , torturous. It’s as though someone has shoved their hands into her abdomen and wrapped them around her organs and is now trying, in earnest, to yank them all out at once.

Her hand and arm hurt, too, but that’s merely cramping—her muscles protesting the repetitive, futile action.

But she can’t stop.

She keeps at it—grinding helplessly against her hand, rubbing at her clit, curling her fingers inside of herself. It’s useless—pointless—and the screaming pain in her arm begs her to give it up. She wants to get up, reach for the phone, tell them that she’s changed her mind—this is too much, it’s torture, she can’t _take_ it—but, even knowing that she’s accomplishing nothing, she can’t. She can’t stop long enough to go for the phone.

And she _wouldn’t_ , even if she could. She _won’t_.

She’s so lost in it—the drug-induced drive, the agony of unfulfillment, the fruitless attempt to ease the pain—that she doesn’t hear the door open. She has no idea she’s not alone until gentle fingers wrap around her wrist and tug her hand away.

Before she can even draw breath to protest (no touch at all is somehow even _worse_ than her own unsatisfying efforts), strong fingers— _familiar_ fingers—replace her own, sliding between her folds, and just like that, as though a switch has been flipped, pain turns to pleasure. She shudders as he rubs at her clit—once, twice, and then she’s coming: arching off the bed, screaming his name, sobbing at finally, _finally_ having relief.

Not much of it—not nearly _enough_ of it—but after how long she’s needed it (hours, she knows it was only hours, but it felt like days—like _years_ ), it’s the most amazing thing in the world.

The orgasm seems to last forever—it draws on and on and on, pleasure hitting her in waves all over, prickling at the bottom of her feet and burning at the base of her throat—and he coaxes her through it just as gently as he brought it on.

Eventually, though, it fades, and she opens her eyes to look at Grant. He’s not even on the bed, just kneeling beside it, and when he sees her looking he gives her a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You need more?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says hoarsely. “ _Please_.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I got you.”

His right hand stays where it is, gently kneading at her, but his left leaves her wrist—she didn’t even realize he was still holding it—to unbuckle his tac vest. He lets it fall carelessly, then gets onto the bed fully dressed—boots and guns and all.

“Shift up a little, baby,” he orders, and though his voice is soft, his eyes are dark with anger.

The last time he looked at her like that, he ended up tying her to the bed and tormenting her for _hours_ —driving her to the edge of release again and again, but never letting her go over—not until she was begging, sobbing out apologies for the reckless decision she’d made that nearly got her killed in the field.

The memory sends a shiver through her, and she bites her lip as she shifts further up the bed.

“Grant—”

“Shh,” he says. “We’ll talk later.”

She means to press the issue—she doesn’t understand why he’s so angry, and she’s not accustomed to being puzzled by his emotions—but then he puts his mouth on her, sucking on her clit, and she forgets everything but his touch.

He coaxes her—gently, so painfully gently—through two more orgasms before the pollen she’s been infected with hits him, too. She knows the exact moment it does; his free hand—the one of which three fingers are _not_ buried to the knuckle inside of her, crooked just right to have her begging—clamps down on her thigh, tightly enough that she squeaks. He twists his fingers just so, sending her tumbling over the edge again, and then he’s drawing back, ripping his shirt over his head, scrabbling at his belt and kicking off his boots.

It’s the least coordinated she’s ever seen him, and she’d like to help, but the four orgasms he’s given her since arriving haven’t taken enough of the edge off—it _hurts_ that he’s not touching her, the aftershocks of this most recent release fading into the same awful wrench on her insides that so tormented her earlier—and all she can do is twist her hands in the blanket beneath her and wait.

It doesn’t take long. It _feels_ like years, but it’s probably only seconds before he’s back—only this time, it’s not his fingers he’s using. He shoves into her all at once, a harsh thrust she feels all the way up her spine—it would be painful if she weren’t so wet, so ready for him after what feels like centuries; as it is, it’s perfect—exactly what she needs.

He sets a punishing rhythm, fucking her hard and fast and deep, his mouth at her neck and fingers at her clit. It’s the sort of sex she usually enjoys very much, the type that comes after a particularly difficult day, when he uses her to vent his frustrations, but there’s something almost impersonal about it this time—something she doesn’t like. It could be _anyone_ beneath him, any throat he’s biting at; he doesn’t care about anything but what’s between her thighs, right now, and it’s not what she’s used to from him.

 _Jemma_ doesn’t like it one bit, but her body couldn’t care less—it’s no time at all before she’s coming again, and this time she brings him with her.

There’s a brief pause, a moment of stillness in which their loud, panting breaths are the only sound in the room. Grant’s forehead is pressed to her shoulder, one hand tight on her hip. He’s still hot and hard inside of her, but when he lifts his head, his eyes are a little clearer.

“You lasted _hours_ under that?” he asks, voice wrecked.

She smooths her hands over his shoulders, mentally forgiving him for the detachment she was resenting mere seconds ago. After all, she has intimate knowledge of the pollen’s power; she knows what it feels like to be hit with it, the sudden, overpowering desperation it brings.

“To be fair,” she says, and her voice sounds even worse than his, “I was alone when it hit.”

His eyes darken a little at the reminder, and he dips his head to kiss her sweetly, even as he rocks into her again.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he says, voice low and deep in a way that sends a thrill through her.

“No,” she agrees. “Neither of us is.”

He palms her breast, kisses her again. “I love you.”

The words send a curl of heat through her, entirely separate from the building pleasure of yet another orgasm. He doesn’t say them often, and to hear them here—to hear his voice, hoarse but soft and sweet, a counterpoint to the rough thrusts that accompany it…

She shoves at his shoulder as she shifts, rolling them to put herself on top, and returns his grin—his silently smug _you know that only happened because I let it_ —with one of her own. She can’t be distracted long from the change in angle, however, as it’s done wonderful things for the pressure winding tight in her gut. It’s barely been a moment, but she’s already so close.

“And I love _you_ ,” she says, once she manages to gather her thoughts enough to speak.

It’s only a second more before release hits, and hers triggers Grant’s; he comes with a shout, and then he’s rolling them so he’s on top once more, driving into her with intent, not giving either one of them a moment to catch their breath.

Conversation is quickly forgotten.

\---

Hours and hours later, they lie together in the tub, soaking in a nice, warm bath. Though the pollen has spared them the worst of the effects of such extended intercourse, their muscles are still sore from exertion—to say nothing of some of their more inventive rounds.

Jemma’s head is resting against Grant’s shoulder, and she keeps her eyes closed, focusing on the still-elevated beat of his heart, as his fingers card through her hair. She’s halfway to sleep—until, that is, his voice startles her back to awareness.

“I’m not happy with you,” he says.

She opens her eyes and tilts her head back to look at him, frowning. “I’m sorry?”

“I told you to pick someone,” he reminds her, frowning right back. “I was five hours away, Jemma; you’re lucky that fucking drug didn’t kill you.”

Ah. She should’ve known he wouldn’t let that pass unremarked. She pushes herself up, twisting to rest her back against the edge of the tub in order to better meet his eyes. His hand falls to her knee—a gentle touch, but one that will quickly become restraining, she knows, if she tries to leave.

“I didn’t want _someone_ ,” she says. “I wanted you.”

“You think I like the idea of you fucking one of my men?” he asks. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I could’ve killed them all—I _would_ have. But I’d take that over you dead, any day.”

For a man as possessive as Grant, that’s a declaration nearly as moving as his earlier _I love you_. Jemma softens, taking his hand in both of hers.

“And I appreciate that,” she says, sweeping her thumbs over his knuckles. “But I didn’t die, so—”

“You were in pain,” he interrupts, voice dark with displeasure. It’s also still quite rough, and the combination, she thinks, would be arousing on any other day.

As it is, her body is—so to speak—closed for business today—perhaps even the rest of the week—and it barely stirs her.

“I was,” she admits. “Still…”

“You were in pain for _five hours_ ,” he stresses. “Baby.” His free hand comes up, tucks her hair behind her ear, and then falls to her shoulder, thumb pressing into one of the numerous marks on her collarbone. “You should’ve picked someone else, instead of waiting.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” she says. “I just—”

She presses her lips together, trying to find the words to express to him the way her stomach turned in on itself when she looked at his men and thought of taking one to bed.

Some of his men are very attractive. They’re all nicely muscled, of course, and a fair few are lovely and symmetrical, just the way she likes.

But they’re not _him_. And even with his explicit permission—more than permission, it was practically an order—simply _considering_ working through the pollen with one of them felt like being unfaithful.

He said, during their apologetic (for her) and furious (for him) phone call, that he wouldn’t hold it against her, and she believed it then and believes it now. He would’ve been more possessive for a while—a little less willing to let her leave his side, perhaps, a little fiercer in his attentions—and certainly whichever of his men she chose would have, at the least, found himself Grant’s sparring partner for the next six months or so, but he wouldn’t have held it against her.

But _she_ would’ve held it against her. She wouldn’t have been able to bear the touch of another man, no matter the extenuating circumstances.

It would’ve killed them, she’s certain. She knows herself well enough to be positive of what would follow such a choice: the guilt would eat at her, would drive her away, and in the end, their whole relationship would have fallen apart for it.

“I couldn’t,” she says, a touch helplessly. “I just couldn’t.”

Grant’s eyes soften, and he tugs her back into his side with a sigh. She can tell he’s torn—still angry over the pain she was in, pain that any one of his men (or women) could easily have alleviated, yet pleased by her refusal to entertain the notion of letting them.

“Okay,” he says, dropping a kiss to the top of her head as she cuddles against him. “I’m sorry, then.”

“For what?” she asks, a little absently. The warmth of the bath, on top of her very long and exhausting day, is starting to outweigh the importance of conversation; sleep is creeping up once more, waiting to pounce.

“That it took me so long to get home,” he says, fingers winding through her hair again. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“You were on the other side of the _world_ , Grant,” she points out, though his remorse—another thing she doesn’t hear from him very often—does warm her. “I’m amazed you got here as quickly as you did.” She pauses, actually considering that for the first time, and shifts to look at him again. “Did your Quinjet survive?”

He must have pushed it to the very limits; she feels very sorry for the men who accompanied him on this particular mission—to not only be trapped in such a small space with Grant while he was, no doubt, enraged by the thought of what (he thought) she was doing with one of his men, but also to be subjected to his insane flying?

She makes a mental note to do something nice for them, as it is, technically, her fault that they suffered so.

Grant, perhaps aware of the path of her thoughts, grins. “Mostly. And the men are fine.”

She hums, unconvinced but unwilling to press the issue, and rests her head against his shoulder once more.

“You tired, baby?” he asks, voice gentling.

“Extremely,” she says on a sigh.

“I bet.” He tugs on her hair, just a little. “You ready to get out?”

It’s tempting, but… “Our bed is a mess.”

An understatement, considering the sheer amount of sex they had. Jemma lost count after her eleventh orgasm, and that was very early on.

“Cleaners should’ve changed it by now,” he says, referring to the subsection of the housekeeping staff dedicated to their quarters. They’re unique among the others, in that they willingly undergo brainwashing—not severely, just enough to ensure that they don’t take advantage of any of the opportunities that access to the head of HYDRA’s personal quarters offer (to say nothing of access to his girlfriend stroke head scientist)—and are therefore the only people, outside of Grant’s assistant and lieutenants, allowed on this floor.

It always makes Jemma cold to think of them; they’re very well compensated for it, but she can’t imagine being brainwashed at all, let alone willingly. Still, they do excellent work, and they certainly spare the two of them no end of drudgery.

They also take great pride in their efficiency; he’s likely right that they’ve taken care of the bed already.

“Come on,” Grant says, patting her thigh. “Up.”

She grumbles a little as she stands; once she does, all of her exhaustion seems to hit her at once, and she practically sleepwalks through returning to their room and dressing. Grant stays very close, barely stepping away long enough to pull on the sweats he sleeps in, and sleepy affection winds through her veins as he pulls back the covers for her.

“I love you,” she says impulsively, leaning into his side. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

He kisses her temple. “Me too.”

As horribly as the day started, its end has been surprisingly splendid, and as Jemma curls against Grant’s side, she silently promises herself to bestow a small kindness upon the lab assistant whose clumsiness saw her infected in the first place.

Perhaps she’ll anesthetize him for the first round of experimentation.


End file.
